Clearing his throat, knowing better than to ask, he just nods. “Yes, boss.”
Turning back to Emmanuel, I gesture for him to come to the door, “Go with Omero. Get breakfast. I’ll be downstairs shortly. I promise.”
Reluctantly, he follows my instructions, his gaze sliding once more to the woman still lying under the covers on the other side of the bed. He signs something too fast for me to catch, but I understand just from the look in his eyes. Just as last night, he doesn’t want to leave her.
“She’ll be fine. She needs sleep. You need to go eat. Now go on.”
Omero holds his hand out, and after another brief hesitation, Emmanuel takes it, slowly letting go of the door as he follows him toward the elevator. It closes with a soft click, and now it’s just her and me.
The bed shifts as I move back to stand beside it, and that’s when I allow myself a moment to really look at her. She’s curled on her side, facing away from me, her dark hair spread across the sheets like spilled ink. The covers shimmied down to her hips, revealing her white tank top, and I note the surge of heat that the realization that she’s not wearing a bra beneath the thin fabric sends through my groin.
A sense of arousal that’s completely inappropriate given our circumstances.
She looks young in sleep. Vulnerable. Nothing like the fierce, defiant woman I’ve come to know thus far. The woman who had handed Raffaello his ass last night and had the audacity to demand I prove I was Emmanuel’s father.
I can’t stop looking at her. This woman, who has suddenly become a thorn in my side. Infuriating me at every turn. She’s vexing and stubborn and sarcastic to the point of insubordination — all things I never thought I’d find intriguing in a woman. Yet here she is, a temporary fixture in my life. In my son’s life.
As she turns to face me in sleep, reaching for the child who is no longer beside her, I can’t help but notice the way the fabric clings to her curves — the outline it creates around the swell of her modest breast, the dip of her waist, the flair of her hips. Instantly, my thoughts go back to that kiss, the way she’d felt against my body, the way she’d responded to me.
It was a mistake. I knew that.
It meant nothing, I chastised myself. But even as I do, I can’t help but want her anyway. Mistake or no mistake. I wonder if the rest of her is as responsive as that mouth of hers is. What would it take to make her lose control — to give in completely?
Shaking my head as if it will shake away the thoughts, I crack my neck before moving to get my clothes from my bag.
She is inconvenient, remember? I have a million things to do, revenge to seek, and I’m pining for a woman I barely know. I really have lost it.
The truth is, having her around isn’t just inconvenient; it is downright dangerous. I don’t trust her; how could I? I don’t even know her.
As I get dressed, I hear her stir in her sleep, and I freeze, turning back to watch her carefully. Her hand comes up to brush the hair from her face, and her eyes blink open sleepily.
The way she shifts, searching the empty expanse of the bed with her hand, makes the tank top situation significantly worse — or better I suppose, depending on perspective. Now, I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin white fabric and the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath she takes.
Christ.
I force myself to look up at her face, which I realize is only marginally safer. She has delicate, soft features, a fine bonestructure, a small nose, and lips surprisingly full for someone so small. A gift from her mixed heritage, I’ll wager.
“Emmanuel?” She queries sleepily. Her searching hand is met only with cold bedsheets, and she bolts upright. Looking around frantically before meeting my eyes. “Where’s Emmanuel?”
“Downstairs with Omero. Eating breakfast. I was trying to let you sleep a while longer.”
“And you’re not with him because…?”
“We need to talk.” I move to sit on the edge of the bed. She freezes at my statement, her eyes taking on a doe-like, deer in headlights look.
“About?”
“About last night.”
The blush that blooms across her cheeks is so deep and rosy it reaches down her neck, and I am struck with wonder at how far down her body it’d go.
Get your mind out of the gutter,I shake the thought away. Clearing my throat to continue.
“Do you know who I am? What I am?” I ask, shifting on the bed to face her fully, giving her my full attention. She takes adeep breath, pushing herself up to lean against the headboard, averting her eyes momentarily as she ponders my question.
“Well, from what I gathered last night. You’re a part of the New York Italian crime family,” her voice is steady despite the color in her cheeks. “Judging from how Omero and Raffaello take orders from you and what Omero said in the car,” she swallows harshly, “you’re not just any part of that family.”
I nod, “You are correct. I am the Don of the Italian Mafia in New York.”
